Sex, Lies, and Videotape
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: Liz might have found humor in his reaction if the circumstances were different. Raymond Reddington, flustered and speechless—she never thought she'd see the day. She just wished it hadn't taken a surveillance video of her screwing her husband to do it. [Milton Bobbit missing scene/post-ep, Ch 2/3]
1. Chapter 1

AN: Do you ever find yourself racking your brain for a title and nothing seems to work and then something pops into your head that you dismiss right away but you end up coming back to it anyway in a, "Well, _crap_, I'm going to have to call it that, aren't I?" kind of way? *points to title* Yeah. Anyway, this is a quick UST-y hurt/comfort two-parter set during and soon after the last few minutes of 1x18.

* * *

Liz tried as hard as she could to remain clinical and detached, to treat the timestamped footage playing in front of her like any other piece of surveillance to be analyzed by an objective observer, but it made her stomach churn nonetheless. She knew the wisest thing to do would be to skip segments like this one—she had been present, after all, so there was nothing to be learned from it—but like the train wreck it was, she couldn't look away.

She had never seen herself this way before, never dared to take naughty pictures or videos, because there was always a small voice in the back of her mind reminding her that nothing digital was truly secure and it could very well come back to bite her someday. An even smaller voice whispered an appallingly practical warning that if her relationship with Tom ever went off the rails, she would be better off if such a thing didn't exist.

Their relationship had gone off the rails, all right, in a way that made infidelity or simply growing apart seem like a fairytale ending. The fact that this particular footage existed because someone had deemed it necessary to install multiple spy cameras in her home and watch her every move for months only made matters worse. So much for her circumspection.

As things between her and Tom progressed on the screen in front of her, the breathy gasps and moans caused a rising tide of rage to swirl dangerously in her gut. Her disgust was so all-encompassing, she couldn't hear anything over the rush of blood pounding in her ears, not the polite knock at the door or the snick of the lock disengaging when she didn't answer.

Red swept into the room only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw her.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were—" She watched in horror as his gaze shifted from her to the screen. Time slowed to a crawl; his eyes widened and she fumbled with the keyboard, managing to crank the volume and replay part of the video before finally stopping it, which only added insult to injury. She closed the video player as quickly as she could before the freeze-frame burned itself into her memory—or _his_—more permanently.

She looked up at Red again, utterly mortified, and found him still gaping at the screen, with two spots of color high on his cheeks. His ears had even gone pink under the brim of his fedora. She might have found humor in his reaction if the circumstances were different. Raymond Reddington, flustered and speechless—she never thought she'd see the day. She just wished it hadn't taken a surveillance video of her screwing her husband to do it.

"I'd tell you to take a picture because it'll last longer, but…" She trailed off, the feigned nonchalance tasting bitter and wrong on her tongue. This had been her unspoken worry when he brought up the recordings after all, that he'd seen segments like this one. She had to take his word that he'd only watched what he needed to watch and had respected her privacy as much as possible. Judging by his reaction now, perhaps he had.

Red's mouth snapped shut hard enough she could have sworn she actually heard his teeth click together. He looked at his feet and cleared his throat, making several false starts before he managed to tell her he'd brought lunch and a fresh supply of coffee for the machine she stashed in the corner. He excused himself and turned his back to brew a pot and when he returned with her travel mug refilled, he was for the most part back to normal, if not a little stiff and reserved.

She felt a twinge of disappointment when he gave her back her mug without his now-customary hand on her shoulder. She'd gotten used to his more relaxed, casual contact since the night she learned the truth about Tom, enjoyed it, even. It was a shame that this little incident sent them right back to square one. Worse than that, even—he had no problem at all touching her in the beginning. That had come later.

She needed every bit of genuine human connection she could get lately, because every touch she shared with Tom made her skin crawl. She tried to tell Red how much the idea of playing loving wife to that duplicitous asshole turned her stomach, but to him it was all a necessary evil on the path towards the truth—the end justified the means.

Or maybe the precarious position she was in did bother him. Maybe that's why he avoided her eyes when he told her to stay the course. 

* * *

Early evening found Liz on one of Red's borrowed doorsteps once again, this one attached to an old elegant house much too cavernous and impersonal for his taste. It felt more like a museum than a home. He wouldn't sleep well here.

Red took one look at her when he opened the door and ushered her inside, his hand hovering over the small of her back without touching her. She felt the warmth of it through her clothing, or she imagined she did, at least, and chastised herself for being that needy.

"Are you all right? Were you compromised?"

"No," she said, not bothering to specify which question she was answering. "Tom came home while I was hiding the key again, but I don't think he saw me. I didn't want to tip him off that anything was wrong, so I—we—" Her voice died in her throat and she took a deep breath before she continued. "He said we were newlyweds."

Red's jaw clenched when her voice cracked on the last word.

"After, I made a quick excuse about an undercover assignment and took off. There's nowhere to sleep at the storage facility, so I figured…"

Liz knew she just as easily could have chosen a hotel and left Red out of this completely, but she very much needed to not be left alone with her thoughts right now. It wouldn't be the first time they spent the night under the same roof, she just hoped he would be receptive to the idea of her crashing on his couch, so to speak, after the awkwardness of the afternoon.

She needn't have worried. He wasn't about to turn her away. In fact, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to reach out for her, but he was hesitant about it, the shadow of what he saw earlier still hanging over them both. He didn't want to overstep, which was strange for him. All he ever did was overstep boundaries.

She stepped over this one herself, wrapped her arms around him slowly, cautiously, inhaling deeply to fill her lungs with his pleasant, spicy scent rather than Tom's drugstore cologne that seemed to have embedded itself in her nostrils. Red's arms came up around her just as cautiously and she tightened her hold on him as soon as they did.

Red was solid and warm and strong. Hugging him was comforting instead of claustrophobic and intimidating; he didn't dwarf her, make her feel helplessly small. So often lately she found herself assessing Tom for his potential strengths and weaknesses in a fight and just his greater reach alone made her cringe internally and relive her nightmare from months ago about him strangling her. In a fair fight, she could hold her own. If he caught her unawares…

She shuddered and burrowed her head further into Red's shoulder. She couldn't help the tiny, unconscious smile that tugged at her lips when she felt him press a kiss to her hair. She sighed, almost—_almost_—content for the first time since the night he gave her the music box.

"It might not always seem like it," he said quietly, after a while, "but I am truly sorry you have to go through this. If I could have gotten to you first—" His lips brushed against her skin through her hair and they both froze. "Lizzy, I—"

"I need your shower," she said in a rush, interrupting him before he had a chance to say anything she didn't want to hear. "If I can't get the smell of him off me, I'm going to go crazy."

He stiffened in her arms and pulled back, looking apologetic and slightly green around the gills.

"The plumbing in this place predates the Roosevelt administration. There's a tub, but no shower."

"It'll have to do."

He searched her face for a moment before pointing her towards the bathroom. She hitched her overnight bag back onto her shoulder and headed down the hallway.

"Lizzy?" he called after her. She poked her head back into the room to find him standing exactly where she left him, looking troubled. "Not too hot, OK?"

She felt Red's understanding like a weight on her chest. Did he have experience with this? Is that why he was being so… odd? She hadn't wanted to shower at home because she was afraid she'd scrub too hard or too long, and somehow Tom would notice her lingering as she tried to wash off the metaphorical filth she felt from his touch.

She nodded and Red tried to smile in return. He failed, but he tried all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The bath wasn't helping nearly as much as Liz expected. Sure, the water was hot and the tub itself was a masterpiece in lavishness, but it did little to settle her unease.

Whoever owned the place had no shortage of bath products, but try as she might, nothing struck her fancy. Cloying florals, astringent citrus, heavy, herbal, medicinal—none of them would cleanse her of the sensation of Tom's hands on her. Even if she had thought to bring her own, it would only have reminded her of home and that was the opposite of what she wanted.

Liz picked another bottle at random off the bath tray in front of her, popped the lid, and, hoping for the best, took a cautious sniff. This one was more masculine than the others, spicy and earthy and clean. Another sniff, deeper this time, and a guilty warmth began to coil in her belly. She quickly snapped the lid closed and put it back on the tray.

Perfect. Just what she needed. She buried her head in her hands to muffle her frustrated growl.

It was Red's shampoo.

She knew she associated Red's scent with safety and security; she didn't know when that started, but she did know the association was strong, visceral, something that would be difficult to break. This pleasant curling heat was much newer and even more difficult to pinpoint.

Liz couldn't explain her need to turn to Red in any meaningful way other than to say it felt instinctual. That he could help her, and he _would_, wasn't even a question. She told herself that she shouldn't trust him—that she didn't—but it was wishful thinking at best, willful denial at worst. (And she was awfully good at willful denial.)

A knock at the door startled Liz out of her musings. "Lizzy?"

She reacted like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't, as if Red had been able to sense her turmoil somehow and automatically realized what caused it. She bumped her knee into the bath tray, sending the bottles splashing into the tub and crashing onto the floor in a series of thuds that were entirely too loud in the echoey bathroom.

"_Shit_." She scrambled to put everything she could reach back where it belonged.

"Are you OK?"

"Geez, Red. Of course I'm OK," she said brusquely. It came out much too defensive, so she tried for a lighter tone when she clarified, "Can't say the same about some of the shampoo bottles, but I'm good."

"All right," Red said—hesitant, maybe dubious. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

"Was there a reason you knocked?"

"It's nothing, just…" He sighed. "Never mind. It's not important. If there's anything you need, please… let me know."

An idea flashed through Liz's mind before she could stop it.

It was a terrible idea. A foolish, risky, reckless, truly _horrible_ idea, with far-reaching consequences she couldn't even begin to fathom at the moment. She knew all of that was true, but in her current state of mind, she really didn't care. She blamed the damn shampoo.

"Actually, there is something you could do for me."

She didn't care what Red would think of her for asking, she didn't even care what she would think of herself in the morning. (And after this afternoon, it was nothing he hadn't seen before anyway.) Red had proven he would do just about anything to help her. She tried not to feel guilty for testing those limits, but he was very much testing hers and had been since the day they met.

"Lizzy?"

She'd been silent too long.

She took a calming breath and let it out slowly. Now or never. "Could you come in here?"

"Are you hurt?" Red asked, after a beat. His voice sounded strange, almost strained, and very, very controlled. "I thought I heard glass breaking."

"No. No, I'm not hurt."

"If you toss a spare towel over the spill, you should be—"

"Please."

Her plea was met with utter silence from the other side of the door.

A flush of humiliation started to work its way down her neck and chest as the seconds dragged on while she waited to see if the knob would turn. She hadn't considered the possibility that he would outright refuse to come in.

"Red?"

She was starting to give up hope when the heavy door creaked open just enough for Red to sidestep his way into the room; relief rushed through her body even as he made a beeline for the broken bottle, keeping his head down as he crouched to pick up the cracked remnants, completely focused on his task. Once the pieces were safely in the trash bin, he spread a thick towel over the section of the floor like he suggested, just to be sure she wouldn't cut her feet on a shard of glass he might have missed. Then he headed for the door.

"Wait. That wasn't why I wanted you to come in."

Red squared his shoulders and turned around, coming to a stop about an arm's length away from the claw-footed tub, still carefully avoiding looking at anything at all above the edge. The lack of attention was like an itch that couldn't be scratched; her chest felt tight from the tension of it.

"I understand you're trying to be a gentleman, but if you don't look at me, I think I'm going to scream."

He finally lifted his gaze from his feet and settled it on her instead. A heavy sigh escaped through his parted lips, breath catching visibly in his chest, and he made an unconscious movement with his hand as if to reach out for her; he stopped himself, clenched both hands into fists, and kept them resolutely at his sides. His cheek twitched under his left eye—once, twice—and he cleared his throat to speak.

"What do you need, Lizzy?"

Liz screwed up her courage and took one of his hands, closing it around her washcloth.

"You—" She watched his eyes move quickly down her body and back again; his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "You want me to…"

She nodded up at him. "I can still feel his hands on me. Yours might be different enough. Mine just remind me of him."

Red took a slow, deep breath and then another, staring down at the washcloth clutched in his hand for a long moment before he spun on his heels and left the room.

A wave of panic crashed over Liz. Had she pushed him too far? What if he didn't come back?

In the end, he was gone for less than two minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a small stool. He set it down next to the tub and lowered himself onto it. He balanced the cloth on the edge of the tub and proceeded to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, loosening his tie and unbuttoning a couple buttons at his collar. She swallowed thickly.

"About what you saw earlier—"

"And here I thought we were going to pretend I didn't see anything at all. Though I suppose that point is moot now, isn't it?"

Red took his time lathering up the washcloth, obviously stalling while he decided how and where to begin. Liz wondered what he would think if he knew about her and Tom's penchant for having sex in the shower before she realized it was entirely possible that he _did_ know; she silently cursed the apple man and all his minions.

"I didn't ask you to do this to make you uncomfortable."

"No. I know you didn't. You asked because you need to connect with someone and somehow in this horrible, twisted situation, I'm the best you've got." At long last, he picked up her right hand from where it rested on the edge of the tub and started washing gently. "Trust me, Lizzy, if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be."

What he said was true, but then again it wasn't. Liz would have chosen him even if she had somewhere else to go, but she would never say so—it would be far too telling. As if her request wasn't telling enough as it was. As telling as his flushed skin and dilated pupils, at least, and the way his tongue came out to moisten his lips when she shifted in the water, his eyes tracking her movement. It all painted a very vivid picture.

Now she understood why he'd been so hesitant with her since that afternoon.

Before, even when circumstances threw them together, the insurmountable barrier of her marriage stood between the two of them. It made their interactions inherently harmless no matter how charged they might have been. They could share a drink or dinner or a dance without worrying about going too far because, at the end of the day, she would always go home to her husband.

That was no longer the case. With the truth about Tom finally out in the open, at the end of the day, she came to him. Every shared moment carried a weight, a potential, that it didn't used to carry and any barriers between them now were nebulous and self-imposed. And, if their current position was any indication, entirely too easily crossed.

Red worked the cloth around Liz's fingers, making sure to scrub between each one, massaging her hand through terry cloth and suds. He made his way up her arm methodically, taking special care with her scar. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to be so gentle—the scar was old enough that it only gave her the occasional twinge in bad weather—but he began to speak before she had the chance.

"Years ago," he said, "after I suffered a debilitating back injury, I was incapacitated for months, couldn't even bathe myself properly. I had to learn to rely on others for it. There's value in that, knowing when to ask for, to accept, someone's help. It's not an easy thing to do."

He coaxed her to lean forward so he could move onto her shoulders and back. "Does Dembe charge extra for sponge baths?" she asked, trying to keep her focus solidly on the conversation rather than the feelings his neat, careful movements threatened to evoke in her.

"This was before I met Dembe." His washing faltered for a moment and he bit the inside of his lip. "Nurses took care of it at first," he said. "Then my wife."

"There's nothing about a back injury in your file."

"Not in the version they hand out to rookie agents no one is sure they can trust, at least."

She sighed, letting her head fall forward as he worked the washcloth up her neck. "They left me at a real disadvantage, didn't they?"

"Mmm. They left you to sink and swim on your own. Be proud. You've done anything but sink, and you've had a hell of a lot more on your plate than they realize."


End file.
